


Consequences

by WhataLoadaJunkrat (ILoveTeamFortressToo)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Junkrat being the world's most reluctant victim, Swearing, Violence, can Roadhog even stand him?, it's hard to tell here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 20:22:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7478640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ILoveTeamFortressToo/pseuds/WhataLoadaJunkrat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The junkers have found a buyer for their little secret. Roadhog knows that if he lets his boss come along, Junkrat is going to ruin everything. Junkrat has never been one for listening to reason though, so Roadhog resorts to using force. But it's not him who's going to suffer the the consequences of his actions. Not this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consequences

**Author's Note:**

> Look at me; another TF2 writer seduced away by Overwatch's charm. It's terrible, mate, just terrible I tell you.  
> A big thank you to the-birb on Tumblr for checking this over for me!

 

'So, I've been thinking, right?' Junkrat said. 'You should let me do all the talking and stand next to me looking all threatening like. You'd be good at that. Nice easy job. No lines to remember.'

Roadhog said nothing. He didn't move. A moment ago he'd been leaning forward on the sofa in the apartment they'd rented, working on fixing his gun. Now he was perfectly still. Perfectly silent.

The scorched hair on the back of Junkrat's neck prickled. Roadhog wasn't much of a talker, and you could tell by the size of him that he wasn't much of a mover. But he had many kinds of silence. Many kinds of stillness. And the prickling on the back of Junrat's neck told him this was a dangerous one. Working with Roadhog was a double-edged sword, one that Junkrat had accidentally cut himself on too many times before.

His coping mechanisms tended to be rather unorthodox. The one he'd developed in response to fear was to laugh it off.

So Junkrat laughed. It was a high, strained little noise that sounded too close to a giggle. Just laugh it off. Laugh it off and then the danger's not real. Nothing bad has or will happen.

'Or maybe- or maybe you should hide somewhere close by? Then if it's a trap and they're trying to cheat us, you can burst in and save my arse!'

There, a better option. Right? Paints Roadhog as the hero. Bet he'll like that. Right?

Roadhog let out a long, slow, huff of air that made his huge belly expand and contract. He still didn't move. But he spoke.

'You've said all this twelve times already. Twelve.'

Junkrat giggled. 'Twelve? Really, mate? Who's been counting?'

Roadhog turned his head to face him. Junkrat stared at the blank mask, tense. Waiting.

'I have.'

'Really? Really, now why would you do a thing like that?'

Roadhog huffed again and returned to working on his gun.

The thing was, it was sometimes difficult for Junkrat to remember if he'd said things or just thought them. And sometimes it was difficult for him to remember if he'd thought about them at all. The same subject would spin around and around and around his head, demanding all his attention. It wasn't Junkrat's problem that sometimes the thoughts spilled out of it without him realising. It hadn't been a problem when he was by himself, but now with Roadhog around, it was. Roadhog didn't like it when he mentioned the same thing too many times.

But this was important. They'd finally found a reliable buyer for his treasure. They needed to do this just right. So of course they needed to think it over. And it was getting hard not to dwell on it because they only had about twenty minutes before they had to leave for the rendezvous point. And Junkrat still couldn't decide how he was going to handle the meeting.

He pulled his lips back and started tapping the metal fingers of his prosthetic hand against his gold tooth like he often did when something was bothering him. It always had be in in a certain order, a certain pattern, always starting with his thumb, and with the exact same pauses.

 _Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-_ back to the thumb again. _Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-_

Maybe he should actually get Roadhog to do the talking, and stand back looking all mysterious and dangerous so that the other guys could look at him nervously and think about how dangerous and mysterious he looked and then maybe Roadhog could turn to him and say something that would make it clear that _he_ was the boss here, he was the brains of the team, he was the mastermind, yeah, the mysterious and dangerous Junkrat, nobody dares mess with him!

'Stop it!' Roadhog roared, fist slamming down on to the table, making the loose nuts and bolts of his gun rattle.

Junkrat didn't flinch. He was used to loud, sudden noises. He was used to anger being directed his way. 'What?' Junkrat asked irritably, crossing his arms. 'I wasn't saying anything!'

Roadhog settled back down again, his breathing rate still elevated. There was something more sharp and stilted to his movement this time. Usually he took incredible care with his gun, cradling the individual parts like baby sparrows that had fallen out of the nest. Now he was knocking the bits of metal together carelessly as he worked, twisting the pieces that fit together like he was imagining they were someone's neck.

Oh well, Roadhog being in a bad mood was nothing new. This was the guy who called himself 'The one man apocalypse' unironically after all; living with him was hardly going to be all teaparties and hugs and kisses.

So they'd got, what, fifteen minutes? Junkrat had all his stuff packed and ready to go in his bedroom. Lots of bombs. Lots and lots of bombs. Just in case this whole thing went tits-up and he needed to blast some of those tits sky-high.

Only fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes for the mastermind to mastermind his plan. It was strange really, that they'd left it this late. How come they hadn't discussed this before? It was definitely something Junkrat should have thought about before now. Why hadn't Roadhog ever brought it up?

'I. Have.'

Now, was that just the Roadhog in his head speaking or the real one?

Not that he actually had a Roadhog in his head. Of course not. The big bastard wouldn't fit.

It didn't matter anyway, Junkrat had important plans to work on. Now, what if he got Roadhog to stand right next to him, all silent and threatening like, while he did all the talking? Junkrat could be charming and silver-tongues if he wanted to. Probably. He'd never really tried before. Not much silver around where he'd grown up.

But would it actually be better if, in case of emergencies, Roadhog lurked out of sight instead? Because then he could-

'Enough!' Roadhog grabbed hold of Junkrat by his harness and dragged him to his feet.

'Ah, sorry mate, was I thinking out loud again?' Junkrat said. He tried for an innocent look. Junkrat wasn't very good at them. His feet were barely touching the floor now and he was starting to get little flutters of worry in his stomach.

Roadhog didn't reply to that, he just started dragging Junkrat through the kitchen. 'Fucking hell, Roady, I'm twenty-five, you can't put me in time out!' Junkrat said, thinking Roadhog was going to shove him into his room. Instead, Roadhog heaved him up by his harness and dumped him down on the kitchen table.

'You,' Roadhog started, one fat finger shoved into Junkrat's chest, 'are staying here. Got it?'

'What? Of course I'm not staying here, I mean--'

'No!' Roadhog snapped. 'You. Are. Staying. Here.'

Junkrat scowled at Roadhog and slapped his hand away from his chest. 'Like fuck I am! This thing belongs to me! Of course I'm going to be the one to sell it. It's _mine_.'

'You will stay here or I will _make_ you stay here.'

Junkrat tipped his head back and laughed. 'Make me? Yeah right, mate. And how do you think you're gonna do that, then?'

One hand clamped down on Junkrat's shoulder. The other moved to the edge of his prosthetic arm. Roadhogs broad, chipped nails dug in hard. Junkrat's eyes widened. 'Fuck! Fucking hell, Roady, don't!' His voice came out high pitched. Then anger shoved fear out of the way. 'Get off! I said: Get. Off!'

Roadhog's fingers pressed in under the back piece, searching for the bar to pull that would release the limb from what remained of Junkrat's arm.

'Get the fuck off me, you fucking fat-assed pig!' He kicked Roadhog so hard in the gut that it caused him to stumble backwards.

But no, he wasn't stumbling back. He was pulling away. Junkrat heard the catch give and felt his arm being yanked away from him.

He wouldn't. He hadn't. Junkrat couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. Roadhog knew. Roadhog knew how much he hated not having his prosthetics on. How the thought of another person trying to take them off him felt so violating.

But he'd done it anyway.

'You are going to stay here,' Roadhog said. 'And you are going to stay out of trouble.'

Junkrat's mouth opened and closed. The anger had died as quickly as it had flared up. That happened with him a lot. His emotions were like a fire with different chemicals thrown into it; you never knew what colour was going to flicker up next. It was something numb and pale this time. Something that lasted just a moment.

Then Roadhog grabbed hold of his right leg.

'Holy shit, don't!' He kicked out at Roadhog. 'Don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you dare!'

There was a sharp twist. And a sharp cry of pain. That at last made Roadhog pause. Junkrat might be one for carrying on and making a fuss about things, but he never showed pain if he could help it.

'That's not the bit that comes off, fuckhead.' The top section of the metal was grafted into his skin. It didn't come off. Or at least, it wasn't supposed to.

Roadhog grunted. Junkrat knew from experience that that was as close to an apology as he was going to get. But he didn't care about apologies. What he cared about was the fact that the one person in the world that he actually-almost-trusted was now twisting his prosthetic leg off at the knee joint. It fell against the table with a hollow clunk.

Roadhog picked it and the arm attachment up and placed them on top of the highest cupboard. His huge gut pressed obscenely far into the kitchen counter as he shoved them to the back. Then he turned to face Junkrat, his face unreadable behind the mask.

Junkrat stared at him, silent for once in his life. His skinny chest rose and fell rapidly, his lips pressed to a thin line. He clutched at where metal met skin on his right leg. There was a maelstrom of emotions twisting around inside Junkrat's head. The one that won out over fear and anger and worry and shock was his sense of betrayal.

'You're not coming back, are you?' He raised his head and jutted out his chin, trying to look defiant. It didn't matter what Roadhog did. He'd survive it. He'd come out on top. He always did, albeit with less limbs sometimes.

Roadhog tilted his head to one side. 'Course I'm coming back,' he huffed. 'Stay here and I'll be back as soon as the deal’s done.' Roadhog paused when he reached the door. 'It's safer for you this way.'

'No it isn't!' Junkrat shouted, back to full volume in an instant. 'You've fucking stolen half my bloody limbs! How does that make me any safer?' He heard Roadhog picking up his belongings in the lounge. No wonder he hadn't left everything in his room like Junkrat had. Roadhog had been planning to shove him out of the way and make off with the goods all along.

'You need me!' Junkrat called. 'I'm the brains of the operation! I'm the boss!'

The front door swung shut with a crash.

'You need me...'

Silence filled the room. Junkrat slid off the table, unsteady on one leg. He let himself collapse down, back against a cupboard. Looking up, he could just see the edge of his prosthetic leg sticking over the edge.

Fucking Roadhog. He couldn't believe it. Roadhog was his best mate. Well, his companion. Maybe his business partner. Or his employee. Or a close acquaintance... Well he was _something_ to Junkrat. Something important.

Should have known, shouldn't he? Of course Roadhog was going up and leave him as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

But he'd said he'd be back. Hadn't he? He said he'd be back. And when he was, he'd find Junkrat curled up here next to kitchen table, missing one bloody arm and one bloody leg and then he'd see. He'd see what a fucking evil thing he'd done. He'd take one look at Junkrat and realise how much he'd fucked up. And Junkrat wouldn't forgive him. Oh no, not at all. He'd make Roadhog grovel. Fucking _grovel_.

Deep in thought about how sorry Roadhog was going to be, Junkrat raised his arm to start tapping his metal fingers against his gold teeth. Only to find that there weren't any fingers there. Dammit. He hated taking those prosthetics off. Even though they were too heavy and the arm piece pinched and bruised the skin beneath and the leg wasn't long enough and they were always too cold. Even though all of that. Junkrat only ever took them off for sleeping or for repairs, and even then, only if all the doors were locked and Roadhog was there to have his back.

He ran his remaining fingers across his scalp, feeling coarse, dry hair under his calloused palm. Junkrat paused. Then twisted a small amount between his fingers and _tug-tug-tugged._ It prickled and stung as individual strands came out at the root, but that didn't stop Junkrat. He just moved onto another patch of hair and repeated the movement.

_Twist-tug-tug, twist-tug-tug._

Strands of burnt blond hair settled on his shoulders and lap. Roadhog hated it when Junkrat did this. He didn't get that it calmed him down, made him feel in control of something for once in his life.

_Twist-tug-tug, twist-tug-tug._

People thought it was fire that did it. In part it was, Junkrat has singed his hair and eyebrows more times than he could count. But it was this that had led to bald patches.

_Twist-tug-tug, twist-tug-tug._

Bald patches that had began to grow back through again, thanks to Roadhog's attention. He always stopped Junkrat from pulling his hair out when he was around.

_Twist-tug-tug, twist-tug-tug._

But he wasn't here now, was he? The fat bastard. Went and left Junkrat behind. Let him come back and find him like this. Let him come back and take a good long look at the damage he'd caused.

Except Junkrat had never been very good at staying still. How long would Roadhog be? Hours he suspected. Sitting here in the kitchen floor for that long would be boring. Painfully boring. Maybe he could watch TV for a while and keep one ear out for Roadhog. At the first sign of him, Junkrat could hobble back to the kitchen and pretend he'd been here the entire time.

Yes, that was a good plan.

Junkrat pulled himself up using the counter and leant against it as he tried to decide if it would be best to hop to the television or try another method. He glanced up at his prosthetic leg wistfully.

Now he looked at it, it actually wasn't all that far above him. Because of his slouch and how huge Roadhog was, people were always underestimating how tall Junkrat was. Himself included.

He pulled himself up to his full height, balancing precariously on his good leg. Now if he could just- his fingers brushed against metal. Yes! But he needed to be just a little bit higher. It was so difficult to reach up and keep himself steady at the same time, with only one arm to do both jobs.

If only he'd glanced out of the window lounge then, he would have seen figures moving around outside the house.

And if only he'd looked around, Junkrat would have seen the tendrils of smoke behind him solidifying into the form of a man.

 

 


End file.
